Anything in the World
by Kathryn Sabourin
Summary: This is the revamped version of "Abby." One-shot, if this gets a good enough response, I'll gladly write a prequel... Mycroft reflects on one particular memory of his beloved wife on his way to do something that always turns him from a man of stone into someone broken beyond repair.


**Yes, I know, I know. I deleted the original, as I felt that it wasn't my best work. This is the revamped version, which I'm much more pleased with. Same deal as before: If this gets a good enough response, you may get a prequel!**

_Mycroft sat on blanket, watching contentedly as his wife stood about mid-calf deep in the water taking pictures of the beach and surrounding area. _

_Her jeans were rolled up to her knee, and she wore a three-quarter length sleeve shirt. Mycroft had on jeans as well, and a light orange polo shirt. It was the middle of August, and London's heat was unbearable. It was cooler, however, on the beach. _

_"What magazine are these for again?_

_She shot him a look, and rolled her eyes. "My gallery. I open in two weeks, and I need at least six fantastic shots from Kiloran Bay." Kneeling, she took a close up of a crab shell with water foaming around it._

_"Why don't you take a break for a bit, Abby? You've been at it all day."_

_"The sun sets in twenty minutes. I have to utilize the time I have left."_

_He watched her for another couple of minutes, before getting up. Walking up very quietly behind her, he made sure that her camera was secure around her neck, grabbed her by the waist, and half pulled half threw her in deeper. She shrieked, and when she reemerged, splashed him in the face. _

_"You bastard," she shouted between bouts of giggles. To return the favor, Abby grabbed his arm and pulled him out with her. "You are so lucky right now that this," gesturing to her camera, "Is water-proof!" He laughed; when she got flustered, excited, or angry, her Scottish accent came out._

_They each took turns splashing and throwing/pulling each other under. At one point, Abby had managed to run to a the edge of the water, but was pulled back in by Mycroft. After about fifteen minutes, they both made their way out of the water. _

_Depositing her camera in her duffel, she pulled her wet, curly hair back into a ponytail, and pulled out a spare change of clothing. Mycroft did the same. Now more comfortable, they settled down on the blanket. Abby lay curled up next to him, with her head resting on his chest and arm on his stomach. _

_As the sun began to set, she snuggled in closer to him. Mycroft wrapped his arms around her, gently placed a kiss on the top of her head, and rested his cheek against it._

_"I love you," he murmured._

_"And I you." _

_"Why did you choose me, of all people?"_

_"There never really was another option." _

___This had been a ritual for them since they had first gotten married. Abigail Thomasmoore, being the daughter of one of the most powerful men in the British government, had had her pick of literally every Ambassador's and Politician's son in the country. Yet, she only ever had eyes for the Holmes boy.__They had been friends their entire lives, but only just that. Until they were nineteen, however._

_Growing up together, she practically raised Sherlock. 'Hell,' Mycroft thought. 'She raised him better than Mummy did. Abby actually cared about him; Mummy just care about him not embarrassing them in public.' __When he started doing drugs, she was the one who demanded that Mycroft step in. She genuinely cared about his health and safety, which not even his father did. All the Holmes patriarch cared about was his family's public image, and his career. Because of her constant attention, she was the only person he would confide in and trust._

_"Abby, do you ever regret anything about this? About us?"_

_She turned to look him in the eye. "What brought this on?"_

_"I just want to know."_

_Abby sat up and held his face. She leaned in, and her lips met his. Slowly at first, then more passionate. Finally pulling away, she caressed his face. _

_"My love, there is nothing that in this world that I would trade you for. Ever."_

_**SHSHSHSH**_

The day was warm, but cloudy. His driver and security stayed in the car; this was something that he would only do alone. Mycroft walked for a distance before he came to the spot he would know how to reach blindfolded. It was beneath a shady willow tree, her favorite. He'd made this visit at least twice a month for the past six years.

He carefully laid the bouquet of yellow tulips and lilies of the valley next to the headstone.

_Abigail Holmes, August 18, 1969- December 7, 2006, Age 37. Wife, Daughter, Friend._

Tears streaming down his face, his voice was barely a whisper. "Happy birthday, my love."


End file.
